Falling Fast
by Kourin Lucrece
Summary: A Krycek story with a -slightly- AU storyline. Basic outline of his past into dealings with Mulder...


Falling Fast  
  
By Kourin Lucrece  
  
Disclaimer: Think. Think long and hard.  
  
Author's Note: This was a very strange idea that occurred to me, but I always thought Krycek was a character with major potential for sympathy. Don't ask why, I'm well aware that we're not supposed to like him. Go figure... Anyway, here is my story. I hope you enjoy it. Please review either way!  
  
"speech"  
  
'thought'  
  
russian  
  
-please note that all Russian words are written phonetically. I apologize if my spelling desires changing...  
  
-  
  
_"A number of persons arrive at one objective by different means. All ways or methods of fulfilling a certain intention end with the same results" – Russian proverb_  
  
- Prologue  
  
He remembered the harsh Russian winters most vividly. Yet, the memories were not of the bitter cold nor the lack of sunlight and food. What Alexei remembered was sitting by the fire as his Babushka [grandmother] mended torn clothing and told him stories.  
  
Her voice was always soft, but filled the small room completely. Babushka had been a natural storyteller, and her tales kept the young boy captivated for hours. She told stories of clever foxes and girls who found unlikely romance. His favorite tales, however, were the ones in which brave young boys left their home and accomplished some noble goal, returning as a man. He told himself that one day he too would fight for some noble cause and return with a warrior maiden as his wife to make his Babushka happy.  
  
The magic never lasted past the return of Alexei's father. Alexei had no brothers and sisters to call his own, and his mother had died not long after the boy's birth. Most of the knowledge he had had been imparted to him by the old woman perpetually seated by the hearth. It was whispered in the village that she was a witch, but her tales of tsars and quests were what kept the harshness of reality from destroying the rare peace in the small household.  
  
Far too often, the rage of Alexei's own evil tyrant shattered the carefully constructed illusions. It was then, in the darkness of winter, when the sun could stay hidden for days, that he found comfort wrapped in his Babushka's arms, listening to her soft whispers as he drifted off to sleep. It was there that he forgot the first death he ever caused; that of his own mother.  
  
Life was never easy for them, but it was not impossible to find happiness. That is the reason that he chose to remember the stories. Even as an adult, there would be times when he could still feel the warmth of the fire burning in the hearth, see the dancing shadows on the walls and hear the soothing melody of her voice. The other memories were not so comforting.  
  
There was one, however, that he would never allow himself to forget. Most would think that memories from an age so young as six would fade with time, but not this particular one.  
  
Alexei had watched his father's anxious manner for days, but this night was different. The wind howled outside the one room house and darkness had fallen. His father was shoving clothing, his own and Alexei's, into a suitcase along with money and small items of importance. Babushka watched sadly from her chair by the fire and there were no stories in the air this night.  
  
Father? Alexei had finally mustered the courage to ask. Where are we going?  
  
America. It was a short, clipped reply. Much the same as any other comment he had ever made to his son.  
  
America? Even at so young an age, the ideals embodied in that almost mythical country were staggering and he rushed over to his Babushka. We are going to America! Oh, Babushka, is it not exciting?  
  
It is very exciting, my child, she had responded gravely. I wish you the greatest of happiness.  
  
Of all the replies he may have been expecting, this was not one of them and Alexei was afraid of what it meant. Babushka, surely you will be there too.  
  
Nyet [no] She shook her head gently. No, my child, I am not coming with you.  
  
But... he faltered, not knowing what to do. Please... Why not?  
  
Silence! his father had suddenly roared. Leave her be, she is not leaving Russia.  
  
Babushka had answered Alexei's question despite her son-in-law's outburst. I am too old for such a journey. I will stay here as I have always done, but you must go and find opportunities that would never be available to you here.

But, Babushka, I do not wish to go without you!

You must, she told him kindly. I love you, child, and will be with you always. Now, though, you must go and live. Always remember what your name means. Alexei, helper of men. So go and learn to do that. Maybe then we'll meet again.  
  
Alexei's father had then come and taken the boy by the hand to pull him away. They had to hurry if they were going to travel with the others who planned on leaving. Giving a curt nod to the old woman, he turned to leave.  
  
Nyet! Alexei cried.Babushka!  
  
But she had merely smiled sadly. Doh sveedanya, Alexei. Goodbye.  
  
His father had finally just carried the crying child to the road where another family waited. Most of the rest of their journey to the United States was vague in his memory, save for the tension that they might face penalties if they were caught leaving the Soviet Union. Once in America, Alexei had managed to learn English easily and excelled in the schools he attended. It was not to please his father that he strived so hard, though that was what many of his teachers whispered with sympathy about the poor boy trying so hard. He hoped that one day he would make his Babushka proud.  
  
And so began the story of Alexei Mikhail Krycek.  
  
-  
  
Well, that was... odd to say the least. Tell me what you think!


End file.
